


Breathe

by Queerasil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson Is A Nice Guy, Breathing is not boring, Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Deductions, Dreams, Happy Ending, I am so sorry, Kidnapping, M/M, POV Sherlock, Post The Great Game, Serial Killers, Sherlock-centric, Symbolism, first person present tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queerasil/pseuds/Queerasil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Me: Sharp pain in the third rib, slight throbbing of the head, dizziness. Blindfolded -- not blind. Good. Conclusion: concussion, broken rib. Not as bad off as John, then. <br/>Breathe. Breathe, John.<br/>Dying is hard enough, but listening to this is something entirely different. <i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts).



> For my wonderful friend, DaringD! Please enjoy! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Please enjoy!

Breathe

…

One, half-breath: deep, ragged, rough – a gasp. Another: shallow, nearly a moan; not enough to acquire an adequate amount of oxygen. Come on, John. Breathe.

Wind whistles outside; slight beating on the walls: rain storm. Crackle of thunder… 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 – 6 miles away. Weather forecast: thunder storm over London. We're six miles from London.

Good. It's a start. What else?

Me: Sharp pain in the third rib, slight throbbing of the head, dizziness. Blindfolded - not blind. Good. Conclusion: concussion, broken rib. Not as bad off as John, then.

A third: faint, barely there. John won't last much longer. His brain, slowly dying; starved of oxygen; useless _; broken; if he lives: extensive brain damage. If he dies -_

Breathe. _Breathe_ , John.

Dying is hard enough, but listening to this is something entirely different.

Door opens slowly: indicating an attempt at stealth; not very subtle, considering we've been kidnapped; squeaky hinges; disused, barely working, rusted. Conclusion: old house, abandoned, alone. Chance we'll be found: minimal.

Best make the best of it then.

Crash: outside, much too loud to be a person; so, a tree. Fallen tree, during a storm, locked in a darkened room. This is beginning to sound like one of those trashy mystery novels John loves so much.

John.

Breathe, John.

Slow footsteps; heavy shoes. Not John. Kidnapper: Male, then; attempting to be careful. Stopped, approximately ten-feet away. Why? He knows I heard him. Maybe I can –

No. Of course… He wants John.

Fourth breath; much too slow. He'll need to keep John alive, that much is sure. He can't - won't let him die. He knows I won't cooperate.

_Breathe_ , John.

John grunts. Not exactly what I'm looking for; I'll settle for anything. He must be picking John up now… If only I could see.

Foot slaps against the floor; John slips or struggles. Knowing John, balance of probability is for struggle.

Another groan from John. Every groan, every breath, every grunt means he's alive.

John's sneakers rub along the floor. Tile floor, then. Clean tile, judging by the squeak. We can test John's shoes later for particulates to test the residue.

If there is a later.

Another groan: John must be struggling. Good for him. If he can –

The sound of shattering glass? Broken window? No. No windows in here; not practical. Glass. Glass. Glass. _Glass. Glass. Gla -_

Of course. _A phone_. A shattered phone. Brilliant.

Phone's broke, now what? Storm outside's rough; power's probably out. He's stuck here. He's stuck here with us.

Oh, this is wonderful.

Breathe, _John_. Please. I'll get us out of here.

Door slams. John's gone. Kidnapper's gone. Time to get started, then.

Hands: bound behind back; tied together with rope – tight, tiny chaffing fibers, rough – cheap nylon; knot: boy-scout, over-hand: kidnapper's left handed. Feet not tied; bad planning. Bad planning by a cheap kidnapper who didn't bother to check the weather?

Fascinating.

Possible suspects:

No connection to Moriarty. He would at least put more effort into this.

Possibly those gangsters I pissed off last week. Likely not; they would've killed us instantly.

Too many enemies to decide; must narrow possibilities.

Kidnapper:

Male, cheap, unprepared, left-handed, former boy-scout, bad planner, clumsy, possibly –

Anderson.

_Anderson_.

… Why?

_Why_?

Why?

Motives:

Revenge – Possibly my fault; constant mocking

Jealousy

Other: _Unlikely_. This is personal.

_John_.

No – focus. Anderson, Anderson, Anderson… Why Anderson?

Why not Anderson? Pretending to be an idiot; prefect disguise. I never suspected a thing. Oh, I've been so –

They'll be time to that later. Now I need to save John.

Why now? Why kidnap us _now_? It doesn't make any sense; things have never been better at the Yard. I've solved ten-cases in the last month. I haven't even been that bad.

Why John? John and Anderson go to pubs together; John and Anderson talk at crime scenes; John and Anderson talk about –

About me. They talk about me. My fault. God. John said something, or Anderson said something, and now –

_Focus_. The last case we worked for the Yard…

Crime scene: Church: bright, colorful; ornate stained glass windows splattered with blood; body: arms and legs flayed; bled to death: slow, painful, killed in the church; time-consuming; resting on the alter in a passive position; the Latin word for 'peace' written on her forehead in blood; communion wafer in her mouth and her stomach full of sacramental wine.

John and I arrived to the scene arguing about water bottles; _what if we never argue_ –

_Breathe_. Get back to the case.

Victim: Linda Tailor, female, 27, brunet, nine-stones, 68 inches, model, religious but not devout, promiscuous, three cats, drove a stick shift, had two phones; keeping a secret.

What's your secret, Linda. What were you hiding? Were you a serial killer too? Or were –

No; you were innocent. The only thing you were guilty of was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Did Anderson kill you? _No_. Anderson's a killer, but not you. This isn't about you…

Maybe your killer's a rival, Linda. Maybe, Linda's killer and Anderson are rival serial killers?

Brilliant; genius; fantastic. Rival serial-killers, oh _wonderful_! It's a petty feud!

So, you have a rival, but who? Is that what he wants me to find out? Is this Anderson's way of hiring me for a case?

_Solve the case; you get John back. Solve the case, Sherlock. Solve the case._

Breathe, John. I'll get you back. _Breathe_.

We need to go back to the start:

Linda gets home from a long night of clubbing; there's something strange; something off about her house… Maybe she notices something; maybe she feels something's wrong, but either way, she texts a blocked, anonymous number: **Can u come by? I'm nervous. ;/**

Oh, Linda, you flirt you.

But who does she text? The number was blocked when the Yard tried it; obviously it wasn't when she did. Someone took her phone and change the number; she had two phones, so how did the killer know which is which? And why two phones? What was she hiding?

We need to go back further:

Murders similar to Linda's? None. Not a first kill; too well planned. So serial killer. Possibly a serial killer who uses religious motifs?

She was flayed. Flayed alive. Flaying… ( _skinning; the removal of skin from the body_.) Used to punish traitors in Medieval Europe; Greek mythology, Marsyas the satyr; Yahu-Bindi by the Assyrians; the Aztecs flayed victims of ritual human sacrifices.

Human. Sacrifice.

_Of course_.

Sacrifice: John, the pool, the bomb, 'Sherlock, run!', 'If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up' –

More specific, Sherlock.

Human Sacrifice: act of killing on or more human beings, usually as an offering; practiced by: Aztecs, Celts, Etruscans, Minoans, Gauls, Romans; closely related practices: headhunting, cannibalism –

Cannibalism!

The second to last text Linda sent from her phone: **Eat me.**

John laughed; thought it was a joke; it wasn't. Cannibals and sacrifices and serial killers, oh my!

Cannibalism: Hannibal Lecter; Clarence house, kidneys and card tricks; the act of humans consuming the flesh of another human.

Linda had a communion wafer in her mouth and sacramental wine in her stomach. The blood and body of Christ… Wow. Symbolism, much.

Linda was a human sacrifice.

But what has this got to do with Anderson?

Anderson: no religion; agnostic or atheist. So Anderson isn't religious, but his rival is. That narrows the field considerably.

Fascinating.

The door opens; one set of footsteps: slow, staggering, possibly injured; definitely John's.

Still breathing, then. _Good_. Keep doing that; breathing isn't boring anymore.

John's hand on my shoulder; he whispers in my ear, "Sherlock."

Still blind and gagged; able to cry out a muffled, "John!"

"It's okay," John doesn't sound very okay. Voice: low, barely a whisper, panting, hoarse - still breathing. John sounds exhausted. "Anderson wants to know if you've figured it out yet."

I shake my head. I'm nearly there, John. Just give me another few minutes; I'll get us out. I promise. I swear.

"Sherlock." John gulps; lump in his throat; nervous; scared - bit not good. "He says he'll kill me if you don't figure it out."

I really should've been expecting that. I'll figure it out, John. I promise. I –

"I'm not hurt, Sherlock, but he will hurt me. So just…" John trails off, his meaning plain.

I know. I know: Solve the case. I'm working on it.

Stay with me, John. Please. Or if you go, just promise me you'll breathe.

John coughs sharply: harsh = coughing up blood = punctured lung = not much time left.

I can solve it, John.

John sighs. Don't sigh, John. I can solve this.

Back to Linda:

Possible suspects:

Peter – creepy neighbor; obsessed with fish and chips; not religious; overweight; alone; not serial killer material.

Glenda – Linda's mother; overprotective; self-obsessed; vain; angry; out of the country at the time.

Beth – Linda's cousin; annoying; not even worth considering; obsessed with Cluedo.

None of them seem likely. That's the trouble with serial killers; they're rarely someone you know.

Well, accept for Anderson.

Must've been someone she knew; she sent them a text; she felt comfortable with them; felt _safe_ with them.

And then there's the two phones; one of the phones went missing in evidence – clumsy police work – but why did she have two phones?

Why two phones?

Maybe the other phone was someone else's? Maybe someone lost it, or someone stole it, or someone broke -

Of course.

Anderson. The other phone was Anderson's; Anderson blocked the number; he knew his rival would expose him, so he stole it back from evidence before the police could find out! But Anderson doesn't know who his rival is, so he's being blackmailed into stealing information by his rival under threat of exposure!

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

Accept that's the phone that Anderson just broke.

So Anderson knew her; Anderson cared about her; Anderson cared about her enough to make her a target.

Only option: I need Anderson to solve this.

Well, I can't just ask him politely, can I?

John.

_John_.

I scream for him; kicking my legs against the ground so hard it hurts. No one answers. The room is silent accept for me. John hasn't moved; he must still be here; I can't hear him breathing –

_Breathe_ , John. Please breathe.

Kicking. Screaming. Downright groveling; I beg.

Hand on my shoulder: not John's; holds me still; voice telling me to be quiet (Anderson's). Fingers work fast to undo the gag; blindfold is left on.

I gasp, "I can solve the case. Just don't hurt John!"

"John?" Anderson's whiny voice answers. "Why would I hurt John?"

Confusion. Noticeable elevation of my heart-rate: nervous; panic. "You're not going to hurt John?"

"No! Of course not –" Anderson stammers. "John's not even here."

No. I'm here. I heard John. ( _One, half-breath: deep, ragged, rough – a gasp_.) John is here. I know it. "What?"

"No one's going to hurt you," says the serial killer. "You're alright."

"I am most definitely not alright. John is gone; I'm injured; you're a bloody serial killer."

"A serial killer!" Anderson laughs. I'm serious. "Oh my god… That must be the concussion. I'm not a serial killer."

Anderson's voice: Level; no hesitation – telling the truth then.

I sigh. What the hell is going on? "Where's John?" Breathing?

"John is fine. He just went back to Baker Street for some rest." Still not lying.

"Why can't I see?"

"Um…" Anderson's voice tenses. I knew it. I knew he was lying. I knew this was all – "Sherlock… You're blind."

No. No. No. I'm not blind. I'm blindfolded. There's a difference, Anderson. I shake my head.

"Sherlock, listen to me. There was an explosion at the pool. You were badly hurt. A few broken ribs, a concussion, and of course… you were blinded." Anderson's voice: still telling the truth.

No. No. The bomb didn't go off; Moriarty changed his mind; he got the call and… and… "That's not true. That can't be."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. Really. But… I don't know how to prove it to you…" Slight hesitation in his voice: possibly lying; possibly genuinely concerned; possibly thinking; possibly still a serial-killer. "I could get Lestrade."

I nod. Good. Lestrade will know exactly what to do. He will know _exactly_ what to do.

…

Lestrade isn't much help.

"He's not a serial killer, Sherlock!" Lestrade insists. His voice: angry; possibly because I almost died; sentiment; caring; _feelings_.

I don't listen.

Lestrade and Anderson leave. Good.

…

The door opens: one set of footsteps: slow, cautious, careful, quiet; definitely John's. I react instantly, reaching out to where I assume he is. I grab his shirt (soft, light yellow, thin green and red strikes, red cardigan; I remember it well; John from the pool; alive, breathing, uninjured John). "John."

I can imagine him smiling; thinking that was a gesture of sentiment. It was purely an observation. "Sherlock."

John's hand on my hand: the doctor's fingertips, lightly calloused against my own.

We say nothing. We speak in breaths; taking comfort in each other's.

...

**Note: Met my challenge of a first person present tense POV Sherlock! Yay! I have this theory that Sherlock's brain works like a glitch computer. Plus, how awesome was that plot twist? Obviously canon divergence here, because Sherlock didn't go blind after TGG, but whatevs.**

**Breathe, my peeps. Breathe.**

**Hope you enjoyed!**


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